Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  Around her, everyone acted nervous: kids hid cheat sheets in their pockets and their mothers sucked on Valium. Dust floated around in huge echoing rooms, the air smelled of old libraries, and outside it was hot, a real scorcher. Sasha did not care. She felt translucent and indifferent, like a Christmas ornament.

  The written essay was easy. Taking the oral history exam, she nearly died of shame: she confused all the dates and completely blanked out on one of the questions. She got a B. Leaving the classroom, surrounded by sweaty throngs of people, she asked herself, astonished: What am I doing here? Why do I still care about the Battle of Kulikovo?

  Mom inquired about the grade and, having heard, was visibly disappointed.

  “What do you mean, a B? In history, of all things? But what about the preparatory courses? You went there for an entire year . . .”

  “There is no point in applying without a bribe.” Valentin shared a profound thought.

  Mom’s eyes turned fierce.

  “Without a bribe . . . she hasn’t opened a textbook in the last few days! As if she couldn’t care less! She skulked around somewhere from morning to night . . . Were you at the beach? I passed the exams without a bribe, and you did,” she said to Valentin, “and we all did it the first time around!”

  “The times were different,” Valentin said philosophically. “And now . . .”

  “In the worst-case scenario,” Sasha said, surprising herself, “I’ll just apply someplace else.”

  “What do you mean, ‘someplace else’?”

  “The world is full of good colleges,” Sasha blurted out and withdrew quickly to her room.

  Mom and Valentin continued talking for a long time. They were arguing.

  Of course, she failed the entrance exams. It’s not like anyone was surprised. When the lists of the accepted students were posted, Sasha’s name was not included.

  Mom was not caught off guard. It had been clear from the beginning that Sasha was not going to get a passing grade, and that her straight-A high school diploma made absolutely no difference.

  “You were right,” her mother said to Valentin with stoical bitterness. “No matter how much you spend on a tutor . . . We should have bribed someone. It’s my fault. I should have. The times have changed.”

  “It’s not like she has military duty,” answered Valentin with histrionic optimism. “She’s not a boy. She’ll get a job for a year, get a taste of grown-up responsibilities . . .”

  Sasha opened her mouth and inhaled deeply—and said nothing. She decided to wait a few more days.

  August came. The heat was replaced with rain. Mom took a few days off; she and Valentin had finally decided to get married.

  “Just a small ceremony,” Mom said, brushing her hair in front of the mirror, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll get married, and then go to the old resort for a few days. We’ve been there before, remember, they have these wooden cabins and a river very close, a forest . . .”

  “Rain,” said Sasha.

  “Well, not all the time. Plus, it’s kind of nice there even in the rain. They have these canopies. And you can use the fire pits, have a barbecue.”

  “Mom,” Sasha said, as if plunging into icy water. “I’ve been accepted to this college. It’s called the Institute of Special Technologies. It’s in the town of . . . Torpa.”

  Mom turned to face her. Two hairpins stuck out of her mouth, like thin vampire fangs.

  “I’ve already been accepted,” Sasha repeated. “Since things did not work out with the university, I figure I’ll stay in Torpa for a year. And then maybe I’ll transfer.”

  She came up with the idea of a transfer just then, staring into Mom’s darkening, wide-open eyes.

  “What town?” Mom spat out the pins.

  “Torpa.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s not far,” Sasha lied. “The room and board are free. And I’ll have a stipend.”

  “The Institute of what?”

  “Special Technologies.”

  “What technologies? You wanted to be a philologist!”

  “Specialized . . . Mom, it’s a normal, decent college. It’s not in the capital, fine, it is in the provinces, but . . .”

  Sasha faltered. Mom stared at her like an ant would stare at a burning anthill.

  “Sasha, tell me you’re joking.”

  Sasha took out the yellow printed letter, warped and wrinkled by rain and tears some time ago, but since then smoothed out with a warm iron. Mom glanced over it and looked at Sasha.

  “It’s dated last June! Where did you get it?”

  “It was mailed to me.”

  “When?”

  Sasha held her breath. Lying to her mother’s face was difficult, not something she was used to.

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “Sasha, you’re lying.”

  “Mom, it’s a real document! I was accepted! To the Institute of Special Technologies! And I will be a student there!” Sasha’s voice trembled. “I need this, do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Mom leaned on the table. “I understand. You’re jealous. You—a grown woman—behaving like . . . like a nasty, spoiled child. Since I . . . You can’t forgive me, can you? You can’t forgive me and you are being demonstrative about it.”

  “What? No!” Sasha choked on her tears. “This has nothing to do with him! It’s just that, well . . . It just happened that I was accepted. I am going to Torpa, and . . .”

  “You are not going anywhere.” Mom’s voice was packed with February ice. “You will be a normal student, under normal conditions, at a normal college. I’m very sorry that I raised such a selfish creature, but I will not allow any more extreme behavior. Thank you for a pleasant chat.”

  And she turned back to face the mirror.

  After two days of cold, tense communication, Mom came home unusually cheerful, pink-cheeked, and happy. It turned out that the university had opened a part-time evening option, and Sasha could be accepted there.

  “And you can work in our office,” Mom chattered, setting the table, doling out the stew. “I’ve already made the arrangements. You can work during the day, then go to your evening classes. And then you can transfer to the regular department. I’m sure you can. Your sophomore year, or maybe junior.”

  Sasha was silent.

  “Tomorrow morning you need to go talk to the admissions office. Room 32. Are you listening?”

  “I’m going to Torpa,” Sasha’s voice was barely audible. Dead silence hung over the dinner table.

  “Sasha,” Valentin said with reproach. “Why are you doing this?”

  Escaping, Sasha got up. She left her food untouched, went to her room, crawled under the blanket, and pretended to be asleep. Mom and Valentin spoke loudly, and snippets of their conversation carried over to Sasha through the walls and blankets.

  “Calm down,” Valentin was saying. “Just calm down. Independence . . .”

  “She’s underage!”

  “They get older . . . They want . . . It’s not at the ends of the earth . . .”

  The voices grew softer, the intensity subsided. Sasha closed her eyes. Everything was coming together beautifully. Mom and Valentin would enjoy being alone in the apartment. Right now they were going to talk it over, and then they would agree to let Sasha go to the unknown Torpa, where who knows what was expecting her . . .

  She felt torn in half. If Mom agreed easily, Sasha would be mortally offended. If Mom put up a fight—and that’s what it sounded like—though . . .

  No. She would not. They were already laughing softly in the kitchen. Now they were having tea. They must have decided: the girl has her own destiny, she’s independent, let her go wherever the hell she wants. They were pleased. Look at us, we’re so modern. What’s wrong with this? Tons of high school graduates move out after the first summer, looking for grown-up life.

  Sasha pulled the blanket off her face. Outside her window with its tightly drawn curtains, it was still light. It was ei
ght o’clock. Half past eight. August. Three weeks before school started.

  Sasha heard a soft knock on her door.

  “It’s me,” said Valentin. “Could we talk?”

  They found the town of Torpa in the road atlas. A transparent circle lay right where the faded paper folded in half.

  “Town of Torpa.” Valentin chuckled. “I’d say it’s more of a village. What kind of an institute are they supposed to have there?”

  Sasha handed him the yellow sheet. He studied it for a while, flipped it over, then frowned.

  “Did you apply there?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I did.”

  “But your documents were submitted to the university!”

  “They accept copies. Plus, I didn’t get into the university anyway.”

  “Torpa Institute of Special Technologies,” Valentin repeated. “What sort of technologies? And who are you supposed to be when you graduate?”

  “An expert in special technologies,” Sasha said.

  Valentin glared at her. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No.” Sasha squirmed. “You don’t have to declare your major until junior year. Or senior. I don’t know for sure.”

  “You don’t know for sure, yet you insist on going?”

  “If I don’t like it, I’ll come back,” Sasha almost whispered. “Honestly. If it turns out to be a bad place, I’ll come back. Just tell Mom not to worry. I need to go there. I really do. It’s not about . . . I just need to.”

  She kept repeating the same thing in different words, and Valentin sat in front of her, confused, disoriented, and for the first time Sasha thought of him as no longer a stranger.

  “Get up, miss. We get to Torpa in half an hour.”

  “Wha . . . ?” Sasha jumped up and hit her head on the luggage shelf.

  She’d spent the entire night in a twilight zone between sleeping and waking, and only just recently managed to fall asleep. The train was old and shaky, and somewhere a teaspoon jingled in an empty glass.

  Shadows and lights swam by, transfusing the open-plan carriage, where half-naked bodies dripped with sweat. Bedsheet corners hung from the cots. Somebody snored, somebody rustled a piece of cellophane, and Sasha lay on a top berth and tried to convince herself: I’ll be back in one week. The condition Farit had laid out was to be there when classes start.

  No one said anything about staying in Torpa for the entire year.

  Valentin had wanted to come with her. He’d insisted, actually, and even gone so far as to buy two tickets at the railroad office. He’d intended to check the accreditation of the Torpa Institute, conditions at the dormitory, make sure everything was normal. And deep inside, Sasha felt grateful for his concern. The dark man who called himself Farit Kozhennikov had not specified that Sasha must show up alone.

  But the day before their departure Valentin received a call from Moscow: his son from his first marriage had been run over by a car, and while he had not suffered any serious injuries, the hospital wasn’t cheap, and Valentin’s presence—with his connections in the medical field—was required to work through the bureaucracy. Valentin, having almost immediately forgotten about Sasha’s issues, dashed away to Moscow. Sasha ended up returning his ticket before the train departed, somehow finding a way during that time to convince Mom that she would be perfectly fine.

  Mom saw her off. She stood by the train window for a long time, looking through the glass pane, waving, and dispensing last-minute advice. Sasha had wished fervently for the train to start moving. But when the locomotive gave the initial tug, she felt her heart drop down into her knees, and she nearly jumped out of the moving train, into Mom’s arms.

  This was her first time traveling alone by train. She kept glancing over at the luggage shelf, where her suitcase was stowed. She palpated the little bag full of coins on the bottom of her purse and checked the documents in the inside pocket—passport, high school diploma, medical records, letter of acceptance, and some other papers, all neatly folded into a plastic envelope. She felt unbearable loneliness; she kept thinking how a while back she and Mom had traveled to the seaside in a train just like this one, and poppies had blossomed outside their windows, and she had been happy, peaceful, and safe.

  She cried, hiding her tears from her fellow travelers, and placed a tremendous blame on herself for giving in to the man in the dark glasses that very first time. Even if she were forever subjected to the eternal nightmare, even if she would have had to wake up on the folding cot in the rented room every morning for the rest of her life, Mom would always be there with her. And there would always be the sea. If one’s life were forever to consist of half of the summer day of July 24, it would still be a pretty good life. At least, it would be a life without gold coins, or Valentin, or a long road to Torpa.

  The sun went down. Sasha’s fellow passengers were having supper, crunching half-sour pickles, peeling lusterless hard-boiled eggs. Sasha took out Mom’s sandwiches and nearly burst out crying again: this little plastic bag held a piece of home. Without touching the food, she put it away again, had a cup of tea, and crawled onto the top berth.

  And now she was almost there.

  “Miss! Are you awake? I’m telling you, Torpa is close.”

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  They reached the border between night and morning. It was around four o’clock, maybe four thirty. After so many months, Sasha was used to getting up this early. She knew that morning would bring relief. Now, gathering her things, lacing up her shoes, dragging the suitcase off the shelf (carefully, trying not to wake up the other passengers, and still accidentally touching people’s arms hanging off the berths), she almost forgot the previous night’s sorrow. The winds of exotic travels, of unexpected discoveries—one had to take all that into account. She was an adult now, an independent person, traveling by herself, without supervision, and this was all part of the journey.

  She’d just have to see what this Torpa is all about.

  Sasha dragged her suitcase into the hallway. The train attendant snoozed on a cot covered by a thin blanket.

  “How long is the stop?” Sasha asked.

  “In Torpa? One minute. Do you have a lot of luggage?”

  The train slowed down. The carriages clanked. In the darkness of the August morning Sasha saw nothing, only a blue streetlight barely visible in the sky.

  The train jerked, clanked, and stopped. The attendant, yawning, started fiddling with the key.

  “I’m not going to make it!” Sasha was terrified. “Please hurry up!”

  The attendant swore under her breath.

  The train jerked again. The attendant finally unlocked the door. The train started moving slowly; Sasha threw her bag over her shoulder, dragged the suitcase behind her, and tumbled down the iron steps. She landed on the low platform and saw the train attendant yawn once more before locking the door behind her. She looked around.

  This was it.

  The train was gathering speed. Sasha hauled her suitcase farther away from the edge of the platform. The last car rambled by, and two lights on its tail end quickly melted away in the dark.

  The green light of the semaphore turned red. Sasha stood alone on the empty platform . . .

  But she was not alone. Out of the darkness appeared a scrawny shadow with a large suitcase. The shadow stopped in front of her. A boy Sasha’s age—pale, sleepy, bewildered.

  “Hey,” he said after a moment’s silence. “Is this Torpa?”

  “Hey,” said Sasha. “So they say.”

  “I’ve never been here before,” said the boy.

  “Me neither.”

  The boy paused, and then asked tentatively, “The Institute?”

  Sasha, who was fervently hoping for this very question, nodded enthusiastically:

  “Uh-huh. You too? Special Technologies?”

  Visibly relieved, the kid smiled. “Is there another one in this dump?”

  “I don’t know,” Sasha admitted. “Do you see any kind of town
around here?”

  The kid looked around and put his hands over his eyes, imitating binoculars.

  “A kick-ass megalopolis. An impressive train station. And there, look, a shed with huge potential!”

  Sasha laughed.

  And just like that, they felt better. Hauling their suitcases and trying to outdo each other in wit, the new students walked over to the “shed with huge potential,” which turned out to be the actual train station. In a spark of inspiration, Sasha called it a “chicken coop refurbished to the highest European standards.” Sasha’s new acquaintance appreciated the joke and laughed uproariously.

  Of course, the station was completely empty. All the cashier windows were locked. Elongated blinking ceiling fixtures lit up the empty cafeteria table, wooden chairs with graffiti scratched here and there, a self-service storage unit with six compartments, all open. The floor, relatively clean, was covered with white and black tiles.

  “Looks apocalyptic,” said Sasha, glancing around her.

  A cloud of August flies flew off one of the lighting fixtures and filled the small room with optimistic humming.

  “Hello!” the boy called out. “Is there anyone here?”

  The only reply he got was the droning of the flies.

  “I don’t like it here,” Sasha said.

  The boy didn’t say anything, and she took that as agreement.

  They stepped back outside, onto the platform. It was getting a little lighter. Under the lone streetlight they found a “Train Station—Center” bus schedule, blurry from the rainwater. If the schedule was to be trusted, the first bus would depart for the mysterious “Center” in one hour.

  “We’ll wait,” the boy said decisively. “And if we get lucky, we can always grab a cab. I have money.”

  His name was Kostya. Perhaps in Sasha’s presence he felt especially manly, or maybe it was just his personality, but he kept trying to take charge. Sasha did not protest. Kostya’s energy, and even his amateur vigor, gave her an illusion of safety.

  They left their suitcases in storage (the compartments did not require tokens, just a code) and found a comfortable bench on the platform, then unwrapped their provisions. Sasha’s sandwiches, which had made her so sad the night before, disappeared within minutes. She shared with Kostya, he shared with her; a bottle of mineral water was opened, and Kostya brought out a thermos almost full of coffee. Sasha’s nostrils quivered; breakfast put her in a very good mood. A freight train rolled by the station, the rumble died down in the distance. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the birds.